


stumble through the days

by palateens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Autumn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Racism, Transphobia, but these ones are fucking dicks, discussions of Anti-Blackness, love and solidarity, not all Chads are created equally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 19:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16024931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: Mid-August is suffocating in Massachusetts.





	stumble through the days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stultiloquentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stultiloquentia/gifts).



> At long last, I'm proud to present my fill for Fandom Trumps Hate 2018! My lovely auction winner, Stulti, gave me a lot of wonderful prompt options and I landed on Ford/Nursey. Please be warned that this fic deals with heavy subject matter and the white characters are far from perfect. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoy!

Mid-August is suffocating in Massachusetts. It’s suffocating on the entire eastern seaboard for that matter. The entire world is aching to let summer die as the sun keeps them hostage at all hours of daylight. New England knows it’s time to tumble into Fall. The people know that it’s just around the corner. Everyone itches through the last sweaty days of the summer, burning to throw on their extra layers, scarves and hats. 

Some people find the Fall depressing, like the triage before Winter, the death of the year. But for Derek, it’s just the beginning. Fall is an exciting time. It’s dynamic and vivacious. Autumn is hungry for new opportunities and chances to grow, to change into something more beautiful than a melted earth could have ever born. It begs for the cold embrace of winter to keep it centered. Like the ocean begging for the moon to cool it down after a long day. 

But then again, maybe it’s just something about Fall that gets Derek’s creativity flowing. Maybe it’s seeing everyone and everything around him dance awkwardly until they’ve accepted it, accepted the inevitability of change and welcomed it into their hearts, that always get him going.  

The sun beats down harshly against the front porch. Across the street, the Lax Bros are blasting their bro country six decibels too loud. Derek sighs, his eyes flicker up briefly. One of them catches his gaze, smirking churlishly. The one thing he can always count on white boys to do is get under his skin, Derek thinks. 

It was true at Andover, and it’s unfortunately just as true at Samwell. 

“Tony get off,” Dex shouts from somewhere inside the Haus. 

“Aw don’t be like that, Dex,” Tango says with a chuckle. 

“You’re crushing my—”

“Dick?”

“ —windpipe, you ass,” Dex says. 

“Shit, you need that don’t you?” Tango says innocently. 

Derek laughs. White boys don’t know how to think. But at least his white boys have learned to listen. 

The music across the street gets louder so Derek resigns himself to his headphones. He could go inside, lock the door of his room, and see if that new insulation around the windows Dex installed works. He doesn’t want that, however. As much as summer leaves him depressed and restless, it’s still an opportunity to be outside, be a part of nature. 

No matter how obnoxious the company is. 

The world fades through his music. When winter comes he’ll stick to lofi and chill EDM. Something to keep his head space tranquil in the abyss of a Boston winter. But the world is so loud and muddled right now. Derek wants to be transported somewhere loud enough to block out the toxic masculinity creeping in from all sides. 

So the afternoon swerves around him and his film theory book. Classes don’t start until next week, and he isn’t even sure he’ll take any of the film classes his department offers. But it’s a new year, and representation in Hollywood isn’t getting anywhere fast. He might as well toss his hat into the ring while he’s figuring out what to do with himself. The breeze from the window fan next to him is the only thing he’s currently certain about. 

Eventually, it’s starts to cool down as the sun fades along with the day. Derek pretends not to notice that it’s getting dark out. The afternoon is almost perfect. Almost. The Lax Bros are still disturbing the peace, but at least they know how to stay on their own property. 

Someone taps his shoulder. He barely suppresses a grin as he pauses his music. 

“You’re late,” he says playfully.  

“Funny, I remember someone saying ‘no worries, I’m free all afternoon,’” Ford says behind him.

“Well now you’re here and, that’s great,” he says softly. 

“Yea?” she asks, now standing in front of him. 

Derek hums. “Yea, I missed you.” 

Ford grins, “You saw me yesterday, Derek.” 

“Still missed you,” he says. 

She kisses him gently on the forehead. It makes his heart do a few flips. Ford’s a lot of things over him—braver, inquisitive, more tenacious, and the best big spoon there is. But she isn’t taller than him. It’s nice when he can forget that for a second, she makes him feel like he could fit in her pocket safely. 

She’s a lot like Autumn. She takes her time to set a scene, but once she does she does not disappoint. Ford keeps him waiting in anticipation for magic—for a gasp of fresh air in between a symphony of words, for a cold kiss after a sweltering day, and for a soft red flush against her cheeks. He’s lost count of how many beats his heart has skipped whenever she walks into a room. 

“Get the fuck out,” someone shouts across the street. 

Ford whips her head up faster than him. “Fuck,” she whispers.

Derek remember one of his favorite books from middle school describing August as the top of the ferris wheel—the quiet pinnacle before the year tumbled to it’s untimely end. The calm before the storm. When everything freezes in time, and the only place left to go is forward. 

Something tells him not to look up. For some reason, he ignores that feeling all together. 

Whiskey’s across the street getting shoved off the porch by one of the Chad’s. He face plants right into the grass. Whiskey’s down for a second too long. 

“What the fuck,” Derek says quietly.  

Derek gets up, waving Ford off when she grabs him. 

“Call the guys,” he says. 

“But—”

“Please,” he says, pleading. 

Ford bites her lip, nodding as she lets go of his grasp.   

He doesn’t look back. He hears her behind him screaming for Tango, Dex, Ollie and Wicks. Chowder’s voice comes barreling behind them. He crosses the street without looking both ways. He doesn’t think about it too hard so he won’t lose his nerve. 

Whiskey’s finally getting up, thank fuck. 

“I thought you were different,” Whiskey shouts as he glares at the Chad who threw him out, still bruised and dirty on the ground. 

“I’m gay, I didn’t say I fuck trannies,” the Chad sneers. 

Derek doesn’t acknowledge his existence, or any of the other Chads for that matter. He reaches a hand out for Whiskey and helps pull him off the ground. 

“You ok?” he asks.

Whiskey clears his throat, nodding his head. Derek wraps a protective arm around his shoulder. Connor looks worse for wear, but they both know not to show any signs of weakness right now. They turn their backs on the Lax house just as the calvary shows arrives. The Chads shout obscenities behind them. 

Dex looks like he wants to break everyone of their faces as he he passes them, clapping Derek on the back. Chowder’s shouting at the Chads. Derek can’t focus on what he’s saying. He just lets Tango give Whiskey a quick once over before helping him across the street. 

“Who the ever living fuck do you think you are?” he hears Dex shouting behind them. 

Derek tries not to grin. Really, it’s not the time for it. But Whiskey flinches a little and Derek remembers what he’s doing. He pats Whiskey’s shoulder gently, ushering him inside the Haus. 

Ford waves them into the kitchen. She hugs Whiskey a little too tight when she gets a look at his face. Derek takes a deep breath. He finally looks at Whiskey, really looks at him. His right eye is swelling fast and the left side of his face is completely scuffed from being tossed out. 

“Does your arm hurt?” Ford 

“No,” Whiskey mutters. 

“Can I check your side?” 

Whiskey shrugs. 

“Connor—”

“Babe, it’s ok,” Derek says. 

Ford sighs. She takes Whiskey’s chin gently in her hand. Her shoulders sag as she kisses Whiskey’s lips softly. 

“Are you ok?” she says, nearly a whisper. 

Whiskey shakes his head. His shoulders tremble. Ford nods, hugging him gently before grabbing the neosporin and gauze out of the first aid kit. 

There’s some rustling outside, someone opens the front door. 

“We’re not calling the cops right?” Chowder shouts. 

Derek looks at his girlfriend and metamour. Their lips are both thin bleak lines. Their heads are downcast as Ford shakes her head. Derek figured as much already, but he had to be a hundred percent sure. 

“No, we’re not calling them,” he says. 

“Ok, I’ll grab them before they start anything,” Chowder says. 

Derek doesn’t want to think about how badly things could go if they called the cops. Who would believe them even if they didn’t side with the Lax Bros? None of the white guys on the team saw it happened, so it might as well not have happened. 

His fingers itch with the urge to do something, to make something better. He grabs some left over pie from the fridge, a couple forks, and nudges Ford and Whiskey to move to living room. The couch is old and lumpy, but it’s soft with nostalgia from easier afternoons. It’s a moment of a lighter reality where things aren’t so bleak. 

Ford wraps one of her crocheted blankets around Whiskey, rubbing his shoulders gently. Derek takes a seat on the other side of Whiskey, helping him ice his eye. The guys come trudging back inside not too long after that. He moves over so Tango can whisper questions into Whiskey’s ear. Some of the questions float into Derek’s ear—a few of them are raw, painfully sincere, but most of them are light, ridiculous. The ghost of a smile creeps onto Whiskey’s face as he starts to sag comfortably into the couch. 

Dex puts on the TV. Bitty comes downstairs sometime later. Chowder catches him up to speed, but it doesn’t do much. Bitty looks as clueless as ever.  

“Why didn’t you do something Nursey?” Bitty asks. 

Well that’s— ”What?” 

“Why didn’t you tell them off? Where were you?”

Derek glares at him tiredly. “I was getting Whiskey somewhere safe. Where the fuck were you? Were you gonna mess them up, all five feet seven inches of twink that you are?”

Bitty pales.   

Normally, Derek would feel slightly remorseful at saying that. But seriously, fuck Bitty. 

“He couldn’t start a fight Bits,” Chowder says. 

“He could do it better than—”

“That’s not the fucking point,” Dex snaps. “You got a bunch of assholes beating up a trans kid. The only people who witnessed it are Black, and the Black guy gets in the middle of it. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to Nursey if he had gotten in the middle of that? To Whiskey?”  

“Do you even care?” Tango asks. 

Bitty sputters. “Of course I do—”

“Could you shut up then? Thanks,” Tango says

Bitty clears his throat. “I’m gonna make some calls.” 

Derek can’t focus on anything but the way Ford bites her lip. 

“You better not be calling the police,” Derek says in rasp. 

Bitty stops walking, back turned to them. Derek can’t see his face, but he hopes to fuck that Bitty can hear the trepidation in his voice. 

“Of course not, I promise I won’t,” Bitty says quietly. “Just need to ask Shitty some questions about restraining orders.” 

Whiskey shakes his head “Bits—”

“Please,” Bitty says, his voice falters. “Please, just, let me make this better. I...We can’t let them near us anymore.” 

Whiskey nods after a moment. Ford vocalizes a response for him. Tango heats up pizza pockets from the freezer. Ten minutes later, nothing’s happened. Forty minutes later, it’s as dull and quiet as ever. Blue and red lights never appear. Sirens wail in the distance, but no closer than normal. The darkness keeps them all company as the LED picture from the television set bathes them in an eerie blue glow. 

Fear melts off him inch by inch. Tension remains, but the unnerving terror slinks away for now. 

“I think I’m ok,” Whiskey says eventually, still nestled between them. “...as long as Tango doesn’t try to cook anything for real after this.” 

“Hey,” Tango shouts. 

Derek hears someone’s cracked laughter as people chirp each other mercilessly. It takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s him laughing. That it’s his arms shaking like leaves as his mouth twists a little too tightly and the air gets knocked out of him. It easy for him to keep a chill facade. It’s like second nature after a lifetime of practice. Tension builds in his lungs, suffocating him as he tries to cough it out. 

It’s excruciating and unnerving letting all of that tension go. He isn’t used to things turning out ok enough to breathe, surrounded by people who would protect him if need be. Deep down, he isn’t really sure how much he can trust them. Just that he can trust them more than any other non-Black friends he’s ever had. That has to be worth something, he tries to tell himself.

And then there’s Ford. 

She grabs his hand, squeezing it tightly as she leads him up to his room. He doesn’t hear anything that’s said behind them. He focuses on the scar on her right wrist and taking a breath with each step. Tension tries to claw its way out of him, desperate and spiralling because it can hear his heart skipping a beat. It can hear the soft hum under her breath saying everything’s going to be ok. Even if it isn’t. Even if she can’t promise as much, she will try. 

She pushes him gently up the ladder into his bed. She envelopes him in a hug as the tension in him collapses in on itself. The trembling in his arms gets a little harder as he hugs her. Ford kisses the corner of his eye and only then does he realize an ocean of sorrow is running down his face. 

“I got you,” Ford whispers into his neck. 

Derek hugs her tighter. “And I’ve got you.” 

Ford sighs into his skin, warming him up inside and out. She doesn’t tell him not to worry. She doesn’t put on a cheery facade. Ford breathes as slowly as he does, ebbing and flowing in the darkness. He finds refuge not within her but with her. In the snug crevice of his bedroom reinforced with new insulation and well latched windows. With brown and white boys who are dumb, but learning to listen, sitting guard downstairs. 

He takes solace in the fact that stillness isn’t eerie here like it is back home. The silence here isn’t a desolate harbinger of destruction, but rather a whimpering sound in itself.  

A careless whisper, humming along with the whirring of the Haus air conditioner and the steady rhythm of Ford’s breath. Derek buries his nose between the crook of her neck and the pillow they share. He never thought he could find beauty in silence and stillness—in the suffocating last moments of August. 

But that’s the thing about Autumn. Derek knows to expect it, yet every time he still falls exquisitely and unexpectedly. 

**Author's Note:**

> fic title - based on lyrics from She Treats Me Well by Ben Howard


End file.
